Where Were You?
by Vampsi
Summary: When he was young, Sherlock was thrown out and had a terrible experience. He needed someone like John back then just as much as he needs someone like John in his life now. Maybe more.


Where Were You?

By: Vampira Maxwell

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock. I've just borrowed the characters. Sherlock belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, and any other rights holders I don't know to mention. No copyright infringement is intended and no money will be had by this work.

Warnings: Angst, drama, rape, drug use

"I cannot believe that you have done this, Sherlock!" Mother's shouts could be heard outside, there was no way that the neighbors were unaware. It is embarrassing and stressful, and all of it is directed at me. Naturally, Mycroft, the instigator of everything, is smiling from somewhere behind and off to the side of Mother.

Where are you?

"I was bored!" I insist. Why is this never a satisfactory answer? Why can't Mother understand that being bored is a terrible thing and that I can't bear it for long?

"You're always bored, Sherlock! That doesn't mean you do things like this to yourself! What will the neighbors think? What if you hurt yourself? Or catch a disease?"

Of course, I know she's worried about me, but she wouldn't be if Mycroft had kept his mouth shut. He'd done this intentionally, not out of concern for me, but out of a desire to make trouble. It's always been this way between us.

"That won't happen, I take the necessary precautions." I try to explain it. I doubt it will do much good, but I hope that it will at least end the argument for now.

"Do you mean to say that you refuse to quit?" she asks me, knowing that these rows generally end the same way. While this is the first one we've had over my drug use, it's not the first one we've had over other things. Generally, I never stop doing the things she's upset about, but we learn to compromise.

"No." I answer, honestly. I do not like to lie to my mother.

She is quiet for a long time, obviously distressed, and for long moment's undecided. At first I think she's going to give in or walk away in a huff. This last option isn't my favorite, I do love my mother, but it would also be easier for me if she would leave...upset or not.

"Get out." she says, finally, looking at me with watery eyes. Apparently, I read her wrong...

"What...?" I ask, almost unable to believe it. Out? Out of the room or out of the house? Is she kicking me out? I suppose if I have to ask this, I already know, but it's just so...out of the ordinary. She's never so much threatened before.

"Out! Get otu of the house, now. Just go!" she takes my coat from the peg by the door and tosses it at me. I take it, stunned, but put it on and leave.

Where are you?

I really have nowhere to go. I suppose I will visit a family member tomorrow, but it's late tonight. It takes me a few moments of aimless walking before I decide to go to a friend's home. He's older than me and lives on his own.

It's really a short walk once I adjust my path. I suppose some part of me had subconsciously known in what general direction to go. I just need to turn to the right and go four more blocks. I don't hesitate before knocking at his door. I know he will understand and allow me to stay over for a night.

And, I suppose I still look stunned or...something. Because, he knows that I'm upset the moment he sees me. I can see it on his face before he says a word to me. I'm good at reading people like that. I can also see he's just taken off his tourniquet. He's just shot up.

"What happened?" he asks, finally.

"Mother threw me out..." I say, feeling just a little more stunned now that I've said it out loud.

"Threw you out?" he sounds even more stunned than I. But, he reaches out to take me by the shoulder and guide me inside. "Come inside...we'll get some weed in you."

"What for?" I ask, but follow him. I don't feel like doing marijuana, I feel like doing something harder.

"To calm you down."

"Alright..." I agree, because I figure as long it's free and he's offering there's no need to refuse. Besides, I do need to calm down and if I anger him it will just mean I have to spend the night on the street. I don't have many friends and he's the only one I can go to right now.

Where are you?

He leads me inside and I sit on his couch as he goes to the other room. Presumeably to get the weed.

When he returns, it's with a baggy and paper. He even rolls it for me, though I am perfectly capable of doing it myself, and hands it to me when he's finished. He does, however, let me light it myself.

Pleasantly, it doesn't take long to take effect. I've noticed he's looking at me oddly, but he does that sometimes. Usually after he's just shot up, but it's never become a problem. I really should have known better...I'm good at reading people. But for some reason, I'm not very good at picking up sexual signals. I can send them well enough, when I need to, but I'm not good at receiving them.

Where are you?

So, I suppose it shouldn't have come to most people as much of a surprise when he pressed me down against the couch some few moments after I'd finished smoking and was feeling almost calm enough to fall asleep.

He's older, and I'm impaired with the wrong stuff to be very effective at fighting him off. Especially since even if I weren't impaired, and despite that he is, he would still overpower me. He's stronger, in addition to being older. And taller and heavier.

His hands rip at my pants, popping the buttons and tearing the zipper, jerking them down. Somewhere along the line, he'd already unfastened his own. This is obvious by the fact that it seems too soon when I feel the naked length of his cock against my thigh.

Where are you?

I cry out, but there's naturally no one to hear me. Which is evidenced further by the scream that comes from me at the first feeling of raw penetration, lubeless and too fast, and nobody knocks to ask if everything's alright.

I desperately wish that they would. Everything is not alright. My throat is raw from screaming only within a few moments, and echoes throughout the room, mingled with his grunts, my cheeks drenched with my own tears.

"Sherlock!" someone is shaking me and when I open my eyes the room is different. It takes me a few moments to realize that I'd been dreaming. And, from the way my throat feels, screaming because of it.

"Sherlock!" the voice again, the familiar voice.

"John...?" I ask, quietly, my voice a bit hoarse, opening my eyes.

"Sherlock...you were screaming, are you alright?" John asks. Of course he knows I'm not in danger and I'm not ill...he knows about nightmares, and I think he is just using it as an excuse to not hurt my feelings or my pride about being woken from one. Some people are sensitive like that.

"Where were you...?" I ask, quietly, my voice a little wavery...I can see right away that he's confused, doesn't understand what I'm talking about. He thinks I'm not quite awake, yet.

I let him think this as he sits down and puts an arm around my shoulders as I sit up. I lean against him, taking advantage of a moment that I know probably won't happen again.

End


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